


Not the Same

by Winterhearth



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Binge Drinking, Extremely Short Timespan Trope, F/M, Jack is 30, Jack's giant baby head, M/M, Mentions of Real Hockey Players, and literally every character that’s ever been in check please pretty much, like if they’re not mentioned they’re still probably there, mentions of past overdose and drug abuse, pining shitty/lardo, this is about a raging house party but it's me so there's also plenty of angst, was just gonna be Patater if you squint but is basically full Patater not sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25552507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterhearth/pseuds/Winterhearth
Summary: Jack’s two best friends join forces to throw him a raging last-minute birthday bash. A lot’s changed in a few years, and they’re not the partying kids they used to be, but maybe it takes a Dirty-Thirty-Bachelor-Party-Hybrid to show them all that you don’t necessarily stop growing up just because you turn the Big Three-O.
Relationships: Alexei "Tater" Mashkov/Kent "Parse" Parson, Chris "Chowder" Chow/Caitlin Farmer, Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Larissa "Lardo" Duan/Shitty Knight
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36
Collections: Jack Zimmermann Turns 30!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Jack Zimmermann Turns 30 Event hosted by Porcupine-Girl. For the prompt: “‘Dirty Thirty’ weekend away!”
> 
> Once upon a time I made a vow never to put anything COVID-related into a fic, because screw real life. But… what other than the lifting of the stay-at-home order would culminate in the most legendary 30th birthday party ever???  
> (The disclaimer is, this takes place in a universe where everyone followed all the rules and COVID-19 was completely obliterated because this is just a story. Otherwise, events of this story would be pretty irresponsible lol. Wishing for everyone's safety. The Pandemic is not discussed here in depth.)
> 
> Would be remiss not to mention I took some concepts from the semi-ridiculous movie, Dirty 30. Go watch it if you want.
> 
> As always, these characters belong to Our Lady Ngozi.

August 1st  
2:27pm

The only way Jack could adequately describe the quantity of baking Bitty had done during quarantine was… ‘astronomical’. And yet, as they had their first non-socially-distant gathering in the living room of their apartment on the day restrictions were finally fully lifted, Bitty pulled a fifth concoction from the oven despite their only hosting two guests. 

Shitty and Tater finally sat in the living room again after what had felt like a lifetime, and these were two men in particular who couldn’t keep their hands off of their friends on an average day. There were plenty of hugs going around, and Shitty all but tackled Bitty when he returned from the kitchen. He yelped as he was yanked over the back of the sofa, and oven mitts went flying. He didn’t seem to mind the assault at all, and burst into giggles where he was sprawled atop a pile of them all. He caught his breath and sat himself up, pulling down his shirt. 

“Well! The turnovers are hot, if anyone wants one… Ya’ll,” Bitty sighed, shaking his head. “It’s just so good to see you!” he reached his arms around the two men he was squished between.

Not for nothing, months in isolation with Bitty, his fiancee and the love of his life, had been nothing short of literal heaven. Despite being more than ready to dive back into work, he had probably never been mentally or physically healthier in his life, with no spotlights or injuries to speak of, save for a second-degree burn on his finger from forgetting to use an oven mitt before grabbing a cookie sheet from the oven. But Jack was glad to have them here, too. Of course there had been endless Skype calls with the gang, team, and family; sometimes it felt that the extra effort of keeping connected with everyone took up most of their days staying home. But nothing beat being beside a friend, especially when their support had become such an important part of Jack’s life. 

“Aw, Brah…” Shitty mussed up Bitty’s hair and clamped him in his fiftieth hug for good measure. “I missed you too! And like… Haus 2.0 is probably gonna be around soon enough. Think they’re taking care of family stuff, but… like, hey, we gotta celebrate Jack’s Thirtieth properly,” Shitty pointed out, that spark of mischief in his eye that appeared when he was scheming up a party. “It can’t be anything short of epic…” 

Tater nodded. “Yes… now especially, everyone can hang out again… parties allowed again. Going to be biggest party of the year I am thinking!” he suggested, clapping his hands together once. He himself had spent most of the past months at home with his family in Russia, and he was more than thrilled to finally be back stateside. 

“Guys… haha,” Jack held up his hands, an amused smirk on his face. “Not happening… I don’t really want to do anything crazy this year!” he insisted. “I think if anything, just… a small gathering. A couple friends… would be nice,” he shrugged, unprepared for the uproar and booing that erupted from the small group, his fiancee included. 

“Jack, honey… why don’t you at least do something special this year, huh?” Bitty proposed. “It might help make up for me not being here for your birthday weekend,” he cast his eyes downward and frowned, clearly still feeling bad about it. 

“Awww, Bitty, you’re skipping out this weekend? Wait- does that mean Jack has _nothing planned_ for his birthday?” Shitty jumped to his feet, aptly assuming the truth. Bitty just sighed, and picked up a stack of mail from the coffee table, flicking through it to take his mind off of it. 

“Nope, nothing planned… I mean, guys, I wasn’t even sure if all the bans would definitely be lifted yet,” Jack defended. “And like I said… It should be low-key anyways, eh?” he looked around the room, but found only hesitant agreement. “Besides… Bits is gonna be at that convention all weekend, and I don’t really wanna-”

“Sweetpea, do whatever you want, but don’t put anything off because of me… I mean, I’m the awful boyfriend who’s missing your Thirtieth!” Bitty reminded him, clearly conflicted over it, a hand placed over his chest in dismay. Still, he peered down at a questionable envelope, the address hand-written. He turned the piece of mail over in his hands. 

“Bitty, we talked about this, you have to go to this event. I know we’ll celebrate some other way,” he shrugged, and reached across Tater to squeeze his boyfriend’s knee. Bitty just sighed, and nodded slowly. 

“I know, I know… I feel bad! But it’s true… it’s gonna be my first big book-signing opportunity since everything went down with the virus… well, it will be for a lot of authors and social media folks. People are going to show up and show out for this one.” He was still squinting at the writing in the top corner. “Hey- who’s… M. Durand? Rimouski…” he wondered, and held out the envelope to Jack. He wouldn’t normally bother him with mail when they had company, but he was sure its city of origin piqued Jack’s interest as much as it did Bitty’s. Jack reached for it and frowned, thinking for a moment. 

“Ah... Monseiur Durand,” he nodded slowly as it came back to him. He shrugged. “Only Durand I know, especially in Rimouski… Old teacher, must be him,” he immediately ripped it open, suddenly too impatient to wait until their company left to see what the hell an old high school teacher had sent him. 

“Unless it’s fan mail!!” Shitty piped up with a laugh, and Jack shook his head. 

“That gets sent somewhere else… euh. Huh,” he stared at the writing. It was in French, and in some form of his own handwriting, addressed _from_ Jack Zimmermann, and… dated back to 2006. _Dear Jack…_ “Wait a minute… I remember this,” he realized, softly, his eyes shining a bit as it all flooded back. Gentle memories of starting out in the Q. His new school, new league, new faces… new anxieties. He bit his lip as he weighed the decision of whether or not to read this aloud right now. “...It’s a letter to myself at 30. _Crisse_ … He actually sent them,” he gaped, eyes tracing the words but not yet reading them. They were his, from a lifetime ago.

“Ohmigosh, that’s too adorable… I have to hear this,” Bitty decided, and ran around to his other side to peer over his shoulder

“Duuuude read it read it read it!” Shitty chanted, bouncing in his seat until he climbed up to sit on the back of the sofa behind Tater to get a better look. 

“Yes! This is letter from… when you were boy?” Tater wondered, a bit confused.

“Sixteen,” Jack confirmed, and took a deep breath. It was silly. But, it was still scary sometimes, to look back that far in his life, especially right in that sweet spot where things were particularly bad. But everyone was gathered around him now, pressed close and staring at the letter in anticipation, even if they couldn’t read a word. “Okay, then,” he laughed quietly, amused at everyone’s apparent eagerness. 

_“...Dear Jack. Congratulations on making it to 30.”_ He paused, chuckled, and shook his head at the irony that he really almost hadn’t made it to 18. _“...By now, you will have put in about twelve years in the NHL. Hopefully you’re on the Canadiens. I mean, you will be playing for the Canadiens… We are supposed to write this letter exactly how we see ourselves at thirty years old, so I’m supposed to say you will instead of ‘I hope’ or ‘you might’,”_ Jack paused to grin, because clearly, sixteen-year-old him had just been trying to fill space on the page for what he saw as a stupid assignment in his writing class. He pressed on, translating for everyone as he went, but he couldn’t help how thick his accent became as he slowly muddled through it. 

“Let’s see… _Statistically, it is impossible for you to win the championship twelve years in a row. So… let’s shoot for at least seven cups at this point.”_ This really made him laugh. “Try two, buddy…” Jack corrected, but then held up a finger, locking eyes with Tater. “Two and an asterix!” Tater nodded and mumbled along with him about the asterix, referring to the fact that no one had actually won a cup this year, but they could believe all they wanted that the Falcs might have. 

“Alright, uhh… Okay: _You will have one kid, probably a boy, plus a wife who’s pretty and nice to take care of him when you’re away on roadies, and to come to all your home games._ Alright, close enough, eh?” Jack shrugged, blushing at the fact that the wife he’d mentioned had been an afterthought, and that he’d clearly modeled his idea of a family off of his own, and what was probably expected of him at the time. Bitty just rolled his eyes and gave Jack’s leg a reassuring pat. 

_“For your thirtieth birthday, you will have the biggest party, with all your cool friends. It will go all night, with tons of music and alcohol, and Sidney Crosby will probably come-?_ Oh... dear God,” Jack sighed, and hid his face in a hand for a moment, because this was turning out to be far more embarrassing than he could have ever dreamed. At this point, all three other men in the room were busting with laughter.

“Dude!! We have to make this happen,” Shitty argued, giving him a shove. 

“Agree. This part of the story is very easy… I call Sid Crosby right now and tell him!” Tater joked, and slapped his knee a couple times in hysterics. 

“For real, though… What if we did this? We get a house or something, throw the biggest goddamn banger this coast has seen in months, just like you wanted when you were sixteen!” Shitty suggested, on his feet again, his party-gears turning. “We get everyone to come, get a few kegs and shit… A DJ… Party the fuckin night away.” 

“Haha… bro, I wrote this when I was a budding alcoholic. I don’t want this kind of party now! I’m a grown adult. I’m getting married!” Jack insisted, waving a hand. 

“Uhhh, chyeah, and your bachelor party got cancelled…” This time, Shitty’s eyes locked with Tater’s, and they both seemed to have the same train of thought. Over the past few months of group chatting and video calls, they’d found that rather than butting heads like they had a bit at first, they were actually on the same wavelength a lot of the time. 

“Ohh, you are thinking what I’m thinking!” Tater pointed. 

Bitty excitedly watched the exchange between the men, and he clapped his hands a little. He could see Jack starting to give into the idea, from the little telling smile on his face. Sometimes he wanted to have fun just like everyone else; he just needed a little push from his friends. 

“Well… That’s that, then. If you combine your thirtieth with your bachelor party, I don’t even need to be there anyways!” Bitty pointed out, and held up his hands in a little shrug at the idea, as the other boys whooped their agreement. 

“Dir-ty, Thir-ty! Dir-ty, Thir-ty!” Shitty pumped his fists and chanted, and got Tater to join in. 

Shitty glanced down at his phone then, and suddenly stepped away to another room to accept a phone call. 

“What, she hasn’t gotten enough of you in the past four months, eh?” Jack teased, guessing that it was probably his elusive girlfriend. 

“Shut up, Zimmermann!” Shitty called from the other room. 

“So… what is in rest of letter?” Tater asked, as he and Bitty returned to staring intensely at the writing on the lined paper as if that would let them actually understand what it said. 

“Euh...” Jack skimmed the last paragraph, and shrugged, before he folded up the paper a couple times. “That’s about it. Just a stupid kid, with stupid dreams,” he chuckled, and Bitty squeezed his arm. 

“Oh, it was super sweet... That was nice of your teacher, to mail those out. It’s like I got a lil’ peek into the life of baby Jack,” he grinned, touching his heart, and had the sudden urge to wrap his arms around his boyfriend in a death-grip. He gave in to the compulsion; Jack wheezed. But he knew better than to challenge Bitty when he was busy expressing that he was just so damn endeared with him. It would pass.

Meanwhile, Tater was rubbing his hands together, maniacally; scheming. The dark energy he and Shitty seemed to be tapping into at the moment was mildly concerning to Jack as he chanced pondering just what was in store for him. “Sooo, what we are thinking, for location? Should head somewhere, like… ‘Go home or go big’. Hamptons..?” he pondered, gauging the room. “Miami… Vegas?” Tater raised his eyebrows hopefully. Jack made a face at that suggestion in particular. 

Shitty strolled back in, closing out his call. He put his hands on his hips, as if he was considering what he was about to do. The mistake he was probably about to make. “...How do the Outer Banks sound?” he asked, his words slow and measured, but sure. Determined. His eyes stared out the window for a moment.

Jack and Tater looked at each other, mulling it over. 

“Actually… that sounds cool,” the birthday-boy approved. “And it’s not crazy-far. As long as we can get everyone out there… It might be nice.” 

“Ohhh, we’ll be getting everyone and then some,” Shitty vowed. “It’s like Bitty said… people are dying for a shin-dig. They’ll show the fuck out, from all over.”

“Again. I don’t… need a whole ton of people there,” Jack laughed. 

“Aaaaaa-bababa,” Shitty cut him off with insistent babbling, getting him to quiet any protesting. He came up behind him, and put his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “You’re just gonna let me and Tater handle everything, right Taters?” he winked at his soon-to-be partner-in-crime. 

“Right,” Tater affirmed, nodding once. “I will handle NHL side of things. Shitty, you get Samwell side to come. I fund their flights, just get them there,” he pointed, already pulling out his phone to start on preparations, if they were going to make this happen in only a couple days. 

“Hey, no… I can pay for flights,” Jack offered. “They’re my friends, it’s my birthday. Just- Shitty, you piece of shit,” he chirped. “Make sure Lardo’s there, or I’ll kill you.” At Jack’s sole demand, Shitty reached up to scratch gingerly at the back of his head, without making eye contact. It wasn’t really that he was afraid to talk to her anymore… it was just that talking to her always made him feel like shit lately. 

“You got it, brah.”

“Cool. Now- why Outer Banks?”

“I uh… Know someone with a house there that we could use.”


	2. Chapter 2

August 2nd   
6:34 pm

“Shits… you’re _sure_ this is… cool with her parents?”

“Uhh, no, LOL” Shitty shrugged and verbalized the acronym flatly, as he proceeded carrying in another box of supplies without another word about it. 

Ransom and Holster just gaped at the front of the three-story shoreline mansion, before they entered with their respective boxes. Even they could admit that the plastic party-glasses and custom t-shirts were starting to feel a bit tacky- and they _loved_ tacky. 

“Dude… and this is just their beach house? I think…” Ransom whispered, looking around the foyer, and up at the luxuriously high ceilings. Holster had already dropped a box and darted straight through to the back of the house, to check out said beach component. Ransom caught up to him, to find him standing by a railing, gazing out at the back yard and expansive ocean view with a stunned expression. Both of their eyes swept around the property; Ransom plotting the layout for tents, electric, and guest accommodations, Holster imagining catering, drink stations, music and decor. Whenever a client gave them a venue like this, it wasn’t usually to throw the kind of party they actually wanted to be a part of, but now they got to run wild with it. They did a subtle fistbump, and grinned at each other in excitement before they dashed back towards the driveway to finish unloading the Ranz N Holtz cube van they’d driven all the way down from Boston in with Shitty.

Their supplies were a bit dusty from some months of unuse, but staging it all out didn’t take long for the duo and the mastermind who’d ‘hired’ them. They were professionals, technically. Before long, they were kicking back on the ridiculously large wraparound porch/deck with a cooler of Natural Ice as the sun gradually set over the ocean view. Orders had been placed, requests had been made, and the real ass-hauling would start tomorrow when everything started filing in. It was going to be an absolutely glorious event, and if anyone would make sure of that, it was the party-planning duo with a stellar resume to boot. 

The three enjoyed the calm before the storm, discussing things excitedly before the rest of the gang started rolling in. With the promise of what was essentially a Kegster in the air, cheap beer on the porch, and Shitty’s flow even starting to make a reappearance without having had a proper chop in some time, it almost seemed like nothing had changed. Well, Shitty was a bit uncharacteristically quiet, but the rest of them chalked it up to the long drive. 

Tater chauffeured in with their guest of honor from the airport not too much later, and Jack nearly tackled his old teammates off the deck when he greeted them, and when Lardo entered an hour later, he could have screamed how happy he was just to have all his friends together again in one place. And it never mattered where they’d sat around in a circle, chirping and shoving and sipping beer, but even Jack could admit that the location was pretty sublime. In the back of his head, he couldn’t help but wish Bitty was there to enjoy it too, but knew that by now he was probably settling into his own LA digs for the weekend. 

Jack had told everyone not to get him gifts- because what did the average person get an NHL star who had everything he wanted already? But of course there was a gift exchange that night anyways, and somehow, they’d all managed to get him something that was either personally significant or highly entertaining. 

A painting from Lardo that had almost made him cry; a Buffalo Sabres cap from Holster that resulted in a round of chirps and laughter as he insisted Jack put it on if he was his friend at all; sex toys from Shitty that elicited head-shaking and eye-rolling; custom-ordered bisexual pride stick tape from Ransom that he really appreciated; and a custom Falcs jersey from Tater that bore Jack’s number and A, but read “Bittle” rather that “Zimmermann,” and was half-funny and half-touching. 

They all stayed up for a while, just catching up and enjoying each others’ presence in ways you couldn’t over phone or video call; knocking knees and delving out shoves and slaps, leaning on each other and reminiscing. Jack pondered that he’d have been happy if this was his birthday and nothing else, but could only imagine what was looming over the horizon for tomorrow. 

At the end of the night, there were about eight bedrooms in the place and more sofas than that, so everyone got their own room and then some. 

Jack poked back into the kitchen for some water and a quick snack after briefly Facetiming a presently preoccupied Bitty and before he hit his own quarters, and picked up on Shitty having a piece of a conversation in a side-room. 

“Okay… Okay. Yeah- I know! I know…” 

“Shits..?” he nosed around the corner, vaguely curious about his stressed-sounding tone. If it was concerning the party, or the guestlist, Jack wanted to know if there was something he could do to help. Shitty turned to lock eyes with Jack, before resting his head in his palm with a frustrated sigh. 

“I know. Yeah, I’m terrible- I’m sorry. I’m sorry I missed it too. But just, with work, and… I have stuff this weekend. I couldn’t- Yeah. Okay. Okay, bye… I L-” Shitty bit his tongue, and there was a sharpness in his eyes as he cut the last phrase, and hung up rather than continue to take the verbal fire from the other line. 

“...Uhh. Whoa,” Jack commented, not making any sudden movements, eyeing the way his generally relaxed friend’s fists clenched and teeth grit. 

Shitty exhaled, and dropped his shoulders from their tensed-up position. 

“It’s… ah. She’s just pissed that I didn’t go on this big trip with her family? But it was last-minute… And I don’t wanna go on some stuffy ski trip, not with… Not with her,” he shook his head slowly. “Not with them, I mean… But like. Yeah. Not with her, either… you know?” 

Jack was leaning in the doorway, hands in his pockets, and he blinked slowly in response. He couldn’t relate to not wanting to spend time with his significant other and his family, so he answered honestly. “Uh… No?” 

Shitty sighed again, and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes in exasperation. “Yeah, yeah… right. Because you have your dumb perfect romance, and it’s even dumber because you don’t rub it in,” he laughed, and let his hands fall away with a smile off into space. If Shitty had a love like that, he’d rub it in the faces of everyone he knew, constantly. 

Jack walked over slowly, and sat down carefully on the sofa beside his friend. “...Shits.” 

“Yep.” 

“Does she like… not know that we’re at her parent’s beach house?”

“...No. She doesn’t.” 

“Shits! What-”

“I think I’m gonna break up with Steph.” 

Jack just gaped for a moment. “...What?” Without thinking, Jack spit out the first explanation for this he could come up with. “This isn’t because you saw Lardo for twenty minutes today, is it? Because…”

“No no, dude… Shut up. It’s nothing like that,” Shitty insisted, waving a hand at the notion.

“Then what the fuck, dude… I don’t know if throwing a party at her family’s place and probably trashing it without them knowing is good practice, no matter how fed up you are?” 

“Yeah… Yeah, I know. Probably not.” 

“We can call it off,” Jack suggested calmly with a little shrug, hoping to convey that he didn’t really mind if they had to.

“No! Dude, no… we’re doing this.” 

Jack already knew this was a bad idea, but he’d always had a hard time saying no to Shitty. “Shits...” he didn’t have much more to say than the single, skeptical syllable. 

“She made me feel like shit yesterday, and like… She always just makes me feel like shit! And my name’s _Shitty_ ,” he laughed, bitter, but still joking. “I’m finally just... pissed. I’ve had enough, you know? I can’t do this anymore, I can’t…”

Jack saw him getting worked up, and for the first time, he was more than just annoyed by Steph. He kind of detested her. “Shitty. Hey-” he reached out, simply touching his shoulder. 

“Like I just... “

“Buddy. It’s okay.” 

“I can’t explain it. But we’re doing this. I’m done. Like, I’m just done. And this party is happening.” 

“...Okay.” 

“Okay?”

“Yeah. You’re… you’re my best friend. I trust you. If you wanna do this, I’m with you.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… I never liked her, bro. Like… you know that. We were all just trying to be cool and supportive… but she kind of sucks.” 

“I know, dude.” 

“Well I’m glad you know now, at least. You deserve better. And this is like… honestly a fucked up way of dealing with that? But who cares. I’m behind you, one hundred percent. What are they gonna do, sue you?”

“Well… maybe.” 

“Euh… Right. Well, if they want any damages, I’ll just cover it, haha.”

“This is why you’re my bro.” 

Jack just grinned, shaking his head a little as he initiated a fist bump. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs. Big day tomorrow, eh?” he grabbed his friend’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring jostle. 

Shitty pulled him into a hug instead, and Jack indulged him for a long moment before they headed upstairs for the night. “Goodnight, Jack. And uhh… happy almost-birthday,” he held up his watch where he still lingered outside Jack’s master suite.

Jack smiled at him fondly, and rolled his eyes as if he knew he’d regret what he was about to offer. “...You wanna snuggle?” 

“Yes.”

“Come ooon.” Jack let him inside with an eye-roll, pretending to be reluctant, but was silently thankful that he didn’t have to sleep alone for the first time in months, either.


	3. Chapter 3

August 3rd  
6:32am 

Anything past the crack of dawn, Jack usually considered sleeping in. But he was still the first awake when he snuck out of the master that seemed so huge that every move he made echoed off the walls. He wanted to get a jog in before the day started, of course, so he was careful not to wake Shitty or anyone else on his way out. 

It turned out that the Outer Banks provided an absolutely beautiful place to run, and jogging in sand provided a lot of extra resistance. Jack savored the trek along the shoreline for about an hour before returning to the house, and found he was still the only one down despite some apparent stirring upstairs. 

Despite it being his birthday, Jack didn’t mind starting on breakfast. That was usually his meal to cook anyways, since he was most times up before Bitty, and it’s the hardest to mess up. Plus as the resident Canadian, his pancakes were the only food with the word “cake” in it that he prided himself on making better than the famous baker--which had been objectively proven with a blind taste test on everyone that was currently in the beach house. 

Or, so Jack figured, as he hummed a quiet unrecognizable tune to himself in thought while he stirred up some eggs in a pan. 

Someone padded in behind him on bare feet, lighter and quieter than any of his huge and ridiculously loud friends, but whose steps were just a bit too heavy to be Lardo’s. For a brief moment, he mistook them for Bitty’s, before he remembered the indisputable fact that he was currently on the complete opposite end of the country. 

Jack whirled around, a confused expression already on his face before he even saw him standing there. 

Kent fucking Parson. 

He wasn’t startled enough to drop the spatula in his hand, but he was certainly stunned for an extended moment before stuttering. “...What the hell are you doing here?”

The smaller man didn’t seem to be put out at all by the encounter, just leaned his forearms on a counter behind him and raised an attitude-painted eyebrow. “Oh. Good to see you too, Zimms,” he greeted with a sarcastic bobble of his head. 

Even better, Tater appeared from around the corner just a second later, and Kent looked him up and down. And Kent smiled. And Kent… was wearing a Mashkov t-shirt that was a couple sizes too big for him. 

“I was invited!” he defended with a shrug, and jerked his head towards Tater. “I got in late last night.” Tater waved timidly. 

“...Are you fucking serious with this shit?” Jack asked, eyes wide as he glared up at the towering defenseman that stood over them both, bleary-eyed and hair sticking out almost as much as Kent’s was. 

“Whoa, whoa… Chill, Zimmermann. Sorry, I thought you were cool with it,” Kent held up his hands in placating defense. And then he, too, shot Tater a glare. 

Jack released the tight, bristled defensiveness from his shoulders, and his expression softened up as he dropped his spatula to his side. He let go of the hostility, more so just flummoxed as he scratched at the back of his head. “I… thought you guys hated each other?” he questioned. Kent turned to Alexei and crossed his arms, pressed expression saying he’d let Tater explain. 

“Uh… What, massive on-ice rivalry between Alexei Mashkov and Kent Parson?” he guffawed, looking between them expectantly. “Like… is just for show. Not real life, hello! Get with program, Zimmboni…” he chirped, but was clearly fumbling for a decent rationale here, and laughed nervously. The other two were both crossing their arms now, side-eying each other skeptically. 

Jack sighed and turned back to the stove in surrender when a fleck of hot bacon grease pricked his arm, begging for his attention. “Okay… no, it’s fine.”

“I can… I can leave, if you want,” Kent pointed towards the front of the house with his thumb. He looked regretful. “I mean, I just figured I’d help with the-”

“No no! It’s fine,” Jack insisted, but didn’t look up from the frying pan. 

Tater stood stiff in the middle of the kitchen, suspended by the tension in the room. He’d done this to himself, really. 

“Uhh… okay,” Kent looked to Alexei, eyes wide and desperate. He gave a jerky shrug, begging him for a solution, but Tater only returned the gesture. Kent’s guess was as good as his… But it wasn’t as if he’d expected Tater to keep his attendance a secret from Jack. ‘ _You’re an idiot_ ,’ Kent mouthed to the taller man, Jack’s back still turned. 

“Alright… how do ya’ll like your eggs?” Jack asked, and Kent suddenly looked even more terror-sticken at that sentence coming out of Jack’s mouth. This had to be the Twilight Zone. “...I hope the answer’s scrambled.”

Kent and Tater quickly agreed, nodding their compliance, and scampered to assist with breakfast. 

Ransom and Holster were the next to thunder in, Holster nearly shouting his acknowledgement that there was bacon cooking, as Lardo entered to casually size up the odd man out. 

“Kent Parson… nice,” she remarked cooly after a yawn, and held out her fist, which Kent wordlessly answered with a bump. When Shitty finally rolled in, he was the only one to regard the NHL star skeptically, and not as if it was just a normal occurrence to see him standing there among the rest of them. Still, everyone managed to eat breakfast and guzzle their coffee in peaceful coexistence before Lardo stood on a chair with a clipboard she’d produced out of nowhere and started delegating. Once she’d finally gotten everyone to ‘cut the bullcrap,’ she was overturned by the one thing that could distract their attention from their old team manager. 

“FROGS!” Jack jumped from his seat to dash to the front door, and Lardo just facepalmed before she fondly joined the rowdy group as they greeted Dex, Nursey, and Chowder on the front drive. And god, was he glad to see them.

“We came as soon as we could!” Dex grinned, beaming at all his friends under the summer sun. “We were just waiting on these two to get all the way here from Los Angeles…” 

“It’s a long flight!!” Farmer insisted. “And I swear, it was even longer with this one bouncing out of his seat the whole time…” she teased, but beamed over at her husband, who, as always, looked as thrilled as ever just to be exactly where he was standing.

“Well, thanks for making it out, guys. I missed you a ton,” Jack was grinning, earnestly, and pulled his favorite back-up goalie in the NHL into a tight hug. One did not so simply resist hugging the eternally loveable Christopher Chow. 

“Is this gonna be as epic as I feel like it’s gonna be…” Chowder asked everyone around him, gauging the room. “Yeah, definitely. It’s definitely gonna be epic!” 

“Dude, obviously. But like, first, we have some major catching up to do? Like fuck, how’s LA? You had a crazy-ass year, getting called up from the King’s farm team? Do you know if they’re gonna keep you after the weird season? They gotta keep you on...” Nursery gushed, because if anything could take the chill out of Derek Nurse, it was yet another one of his bros playing in the NHL. 

“They call me Chow-Town there!” was Chowder’s sole enthusiastic response. 

“Dude, I know. And that answers absolutely none of my questions, but okay.” 

X

Jack was apparently not allowed to help with his own party setup, so he sprawled out on the sand, facing the water. A moment of Zen. He was never a huge fan of the beach, but it was breezy enough, and the sun wasn’t too hot. The sand was soft and fine, rather than damp and sticky. It was acceptable. 

He was nearly startled by the small figure that appeared in his peripheral, but only smiled and made room on his towel for her when she approached. 

He slung an arm around Lardo when she lowered herself down close to him, and they sat in content silence for a moment. 

“...He’s so stupid,” she finally spoke up, and Jack frowned, glancing over his shoulder at exactly the person in question, pitching up one of the tents in the distance. 

“Well, no one’s ever disputed that,” Jack smirked, and rubbed her shoulder comfortingly. She leaned into him. “Hey…” 

“I’m fine. I’m fine… UGH.” She laughed at her own misery, rubbing her eyes. “I know, he’s like… he’s like your best friend, and I’m not saying…” she trailed off. Jack shook his head. 

“Lardo, you know I don’t like making excuses. For myself or for anyone else… But. I think he’s had a rough go of it, eh?” he reasoned, chewing his lip a little bit in thought as he watched the waves. 

“I wouldn’t know, would I?” she shrugged. 

“He hurt you. I’d say that’s a given. But I still don’t think he knows what the hell he’s doing.”

“I don’t feel bad for the stupid choices he’s made,” she retorted, voice low and calm. Jack hummed in thought. 

“You shouldn’t have to,” he sighed. “And… I’m not saying he deserves any more chances either. But he’s breaking up with Steph.” Jack shouldn’t have said that. That really wasn’t his to share with her, especially when it wasn’t completely official. And he wasn’t the type to meddle with other people’s lives, but this was Lardo and Shitty they were talking about; there wasn’t a soul that knew them that didn’t want them to figure their shit out. 

Still, the piece of intel was met with indifferent silence from Lardo. 

“Sorry,” Jack spoke, and just held his friend. 

X

The day crept on and more joyous arrivals joined the ranks tramping across the backyard as things started to come together. By the afternoon, they were making great time, and Lardo and Holster decided it was time to “class up the place” with the surprise custom touches. Re: banners, cutouts, and signs, all designed by the resident artist in attendance. (The matching t-shirts would come later, once Jack was a couple more drinks in, and might actually agree to them). 

Filing in after lunch were bits and pieces of the Falcs and ex-falcs, including Marty and Thirdy and their wives- “ _Are you kidding? The grandparents were dying to take the kids for a night, and we were dying for a grown-ups-only night. I mean, we love ‘em, but four months at home with ‘em is a long time…_ ”

The beloved tadpoles pulled up together, W-T-F in all their reunited triad glory, as if they’d never been apart achieving their own varying definitions of success. 

There was Whiskey, who surprised absolutely none of his ex-teammates when he was pulled up from the AHL’s Catamarans to be tried out on the Schooner’s second line last season, and had earned his stay there so far.

Ford, who had surprised EVERYONE when she’d ended up pursuing a career in the athletic field, although media related, as it turned out that Lardo was kind of right: Somehow, managing this seemingly random college hockey team got you a surprising amount of connections and opened a lot of doors. 

And Tango, who was… well, still Tango. But no one was complaining about that. 

Even a couple of the newly-(virtually)-graduated waffles popped up at some point, just in time for Louis to help haul in and inspect the sound equipment, as Shitty would have hired no one else to DJ such an momentous spectacle- “ _No, Ollie, Wicky, trust us, he’s gotten so much better. He’s branched out from just Swedish Underground_.”

It seemed everyone really was making it out. Really, everyone… if this was just the “friends” Shitty had invited to come by early, Jack was beginning to wonder what the hell later was going to look like. 

“Oh my god… Camilla?” Jack looked on in surprise as a couple more Samwell athletes swelled into the backyard, apparently Volleyball, Lacrosse (in light of the newfound alliance), and Tennis. He grinned at their arrival, pleasantly unexpected, and jogged up to greet March and April before touching base with Camilla, who he hadn’t caught up with since they’d gotten lunch in Boston a couple months after graduation. 

Suddenly Jack felt like he’d hugged more people than he had in his entire life, which was probably exacerbated by the fact that he’d only been hugging one person straight for months on end, and he stole away like Jack often did, to take a breather before things got even more hectic. 

He tapped his lip with a finger as he looked at the time, imagining Bitty was probably in the midst of his own kind of chaos at the moment, if not breaking for lunch, but figured he’d try him and if he couldn't pick up, then he couldn’t pick up. 

He did pick up, and Jack breathed a sigh of relief and smiled when he could hear Bitty’s answer. 

“Bits! Hi… What’s up, how’s everything? How’s the first day going at the convention…” he wondered, and ran his fingers along the books lined up on one of the shelves in the reading room. It overlooked the backyard, and he turned away from the chaos of it all for a moment, ignoring a truck beeping loudly as it backed up its rear to unload god-knew-what else into the fray. His friends were insane. 

“Oh, sweetpea, it’s fantastic… I mean, the fans I’ve gotten to meet so far are great but the people that are here! It’s really something… How is setup going there? Everything going smoothly so far?” Bitty asked, wondering if it said something that Jack was taking time out to call him when they’d already spoken earlier when Bitty had delivered his Happy Birthday greeting, or if he really just wanted to check in. He decided either case was acceptable and appreciated. He smiled and silently waved back to what seemed like a complete stranger who locked eyes with him across the room to wave excitedly at him. It was weird to be somewhere where he was kind of famous. “Is everything okay?” Bitty clutched his phone tighter, turning a bit where he sat at his table to minimize his distractions for a moment, intrigued to know what was happening on the party-front. 

“Euh, yeah!” Jack assured him, hesitant but ultimately sure. Still, something hung in the air. He made a funny sound as he exhaled, like he was grabbing for words. “Well, my ex is here…” 

“Oh, Camilla? Yes, Shitty was telling me he was thinking-”

“No, not Camilla. I mean! Yeah, she’s here. Ehm… so I guess yeah, two of my exes,” he laughed thinly. “Kent… Kent Parson? Is here?” he cleared his throat. 

“...Okay.” 

“I mean. Yeah, I was… it’s weird.” There was a short pause, but it didn’t last. 

“Honey, you don’t have to feel like you need to call me to tell me that. I mean, it’s not like I don’t trust you to…” Bitty was laughing a little through his words, keeping it light, and Jack laughed back a little. 

“No, yeah, I know, Bits. It’s not that. I just wanted to tell you. Like, it felt like… I should tell you. Because no one else thinks it’s weird.” 

“Are you uncomfortable?” Bitty asked, suddenly concerned. Jack considered it, then shrugged. 

“Well, I guess not. Think… I’m just overthinking it.” 

“That’s fair. I mean, what on earth is he doing there?” 

“Eugh… Tater’s friends with him, I guess? I don’t know. Anyways… Things are going good, the squad really has it all together over here. It’s something to behold…” Jack filled him in, squinting through the blinds as he watched the Frogs battle each other over who could carry over more chairs at once. He scoffed through his nose, and shook his head. “This thing’s gonna get out of control, I can tell.”

“Hey, now. You’re gonna have a good time, right? There’s a lot of people there that are gonna make it their entire job tonight to make damn sure you have a good time, mister. And you’d better,” Bitty scolded, and covered his smile, because the love on his face felt somehow too intimate to share with a convention center booming with thousands of people. 

“I will, Bits. Um… God, it sounds loud there? I’ll let you go, you’re probably in the middle of so much…” On cue, Bitty smiled and covered the receiver on his cell phone to greet a couple approaching fans. 

“That’s alright honey--Happy Birthday, Jack. Enjoy yourself tonight. You deserve it… I love you.” 

“Okay, Bits. I love you too. Promise I will… I’ll text you,” he decided, before they simultaneously ended their call. 

Jack took a deep breath, and turned back to the window to note any changes in the current status of things and sure enough, another delivery truck was pulling around. 

“ _Honestly_ …” Jack hissed, in equal parts disbelief and amusement, and marched back out to the porch, clambering down to help.


	4. Chapter 4

“...You’d be surprised by how many deliveries we’ve made between yesterday and today for ‘quarantine-ending’ parties,” this particular delivery man chuckled where he was standing behind his truck and handing his clipboard to Shitty to sign. 

“Well, thanks for coming out. You guys are like… the real heroes. Glad to have you back in the force,” Shitty saluted once he’d scribbled his confirmation on the line and handed it back. 

“Alright, now, we’ll get the dollies, just tell us where you want ‘em,” the man started signaling to his partner, who was dragging full kegs towards the back ledge of the truck. On cue, several members of the NHL lined up and started scooping kegs into their arms and maneuvering them as if they weighed little more than a toddler. In seconds flat, two middle-aged dumbstruck deliverymen observed Alexei Mashkov, Dustin Snow, Kent Parson, Connor Whisk, and a couple lesser-known but comparably physically built ex-college hockey players sweep away their order of probably enough beer to supply Coachella for a night, across the huge lawn to the drink tent with what seemed like little to no effort at all. 

The man scanned his clipboard and clicked his tongue. “Well, have to admit that’s a first, though.” 

Jack made sure they left with a hefty tip anyways. 

Saturday, August 1, 2020  
9:32pm

Jack continued to find himself impressed with how smoothly everything was going, from minute to minute it seemed, everything had impossibly come together. But then, this truly was a team of party professionals, with years of experience in the field. Caterers arrived just before a swell of partygoers flocked in, and his friends had managed to get a couple shots in him before presenting him with his mandatory uniform for the night. And soon enough, they’d all pulled on their ridiculous running-joke t-shirts, Jack agreeing to it before he was given a chance not to. 

They read as such: 

\--Jack’s giant baby head--  
This Baby is:  
-A two-time Stanley Cup Champion  
-Getting MARRIED  
-THIRTY

He hated and loved the shirts, the not-so-subtle crudely drawn penis-shapes included. A Lardo signature.

The house started to fill and the scene shifted from casual to raucous before their eyes. Worlds colliding, left and right. Samwell women’s Soccer in one corner and the Carolina Hurricanes in another. Waffles manning the DJ booth. Actual hired security guards posted around. And somehow, Shitty and Tater had managed to pull it all off, all while never budging from his side.

Jack wanted to protest that, but found he appreciated it. Despite knowing almost every person there in one capacity or another, he was always left floundering when he was wading in the midst of a large party like an island. He didn’t have to worry about that, with his own little posse following him around, pouring him drinks, and for once he wasn’t going to complain. For once, it was something all for him, and he wasn’t totally pissed that he had the spotlight. It was… fun? And everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Jack Zimmermann, having fun at a party for more than an hour. Even he thought it was some kind of birthday miracle. 

Jack wished Bitty was there. That was the only thing. But, every time he voiced that, he was just encouraged to drink more. And it seemed like as decent a solution as any right about then, so he did it. 

Still, as he was ushered towards the deck which partygoers seemed to have declared the dancefloor for the night, it was evident he hadn’t had quite enough alcohol to be goaded out into the middle of it. 

Once outdoors, laughing and stumbling a bit as Shitty pulled his wrist towards the DJ booth while Holster tried to push him, they all froze when they heard a faint exclamation over the bumping music. 

“Coach Z… Coach Z!!” a small group of kids came rocketing over with all the uncoordinated energy Jack remembered out of them when they’d been in Pee Wees. He let out a stunned laugh, and smacked at Shitty’s shirt frantically. 

“What… how? You did not… you did not invite them here,” Jack’s face split into a grin and he dashed away to greet his favorite little--not so little anymore--hockey players. He hadn’t seen them since last summer’s visit to Montreal. “You guys-! What are you doing here? You’re not even-” Jack protested as they threw themselves at their beloved ex-coach, jumping and hanging on him as if they were still eleven. 

“We’re twenty-one! We promise… And Shitty called us about your birthday and we had to come!” one of them--Jamie--explained, and clapped Jack’s hand in a shake. Jack pulled him into a hug. 

“Plus, they were saying there would be all these NHL players here, so- and- OW--” Jean was cut off by a punch and interjection from the third. 

“ANYWAYS. Dude be cool… It’s awesome to be here! Thanks for having us Coach Z! Happy birthday!” Gabe thanked politely for the little trio. 

“Okay, okay…” Jack resigned, looking about close to kicking out the pure souls from such an arguably disgraceful place. There were dicks on his t-shirt. But, he supposed as long as they were of legal drinking age… Jack smiled fondly, and sighed. “You guys stick together tonight, understand? Everyone here’s cool, but it’s pretty rowdy, and you’re far from home. If you need to, you can stay here tonight, okay boys?” he rested hands on their shoulders, and they rolled their eyes, but ultimately complied. 

“Yes, coach,” they agreed obediently, and gifted him one last giggly hug. His boys. He sent them off, and turned back around to come face-to-face with a cross-armed Shitty. 

“Bro. Did you just go Full-Dad?” he raised an eyebrow. “Come on… I just watched you sober up before my very eyes. SHOTS,” he circled up his finger, and everyone in the immediate vicinity piled through the continually-growing crowds to the closest bottle of liquor they could access. 

X

“Okay, okayokay. Farmer, I’m doing a years-overdue, double-rematch against Mashkov and Parson. The dream-team’s back in action, come on…” Lardo grabbed Cait’s arm to guide her over to the Pong table setup. The taller woman giggled. 

“Sure! Sounds great… can I bypass the drinking though?” she wondered, after a brief pause. Lardo just blinked, and narrowed her eyes. 

“...I mean, Haus rules dictate that players can do that, but why would you want to?” Lardo scoffed. “Come on, where’s Farm Animal tonight?” she teased with the (frankly semi-offensive but always worn with pride) party nickname the boys had gifted her years ago, and elbowed her gently as she carefully inspected two ping-pong balls. If Lardo was serious about anything, it was Pong. 

“Well, she’s…” Farmer bit her lip, and waited for Lardo to look up at her. “Lards, I’m four months pregnant,” she said, barely loud enough for her to hear over the music that was still blaring even though the tables were set all the way out to graze the shoreline. 

Lardo clapped a hand over her mouth, and braced her body in a low crouch, instantly wound with ecstatic energy that threatened to explode out of her. Obviously, she hadn’t expected this news. 

“It’s a girl!” Cait gasped, and covered her own mouth with her hands, and teared up, because that was just a side effect of telling people about one of the most personally exciting things to ever happen to her; about something she’d wanted ever since she could remember. 

“Dude…” Lardo sniffed, rubbing at her nose. “Your abs… they’re so rock hard. I didn’t even notice,” she choked, laughing through tears, and reached out to embrace her friend. “Dude.” 

At the other end of the table, Kent looked about ready to awkwardly slip away, but Tater had his arms held up in victory. 

“HAVING BABY! Farmer and Mini-Snowy, having baby!!” Tater grabbed Kent by his shoulders and violently shook him, leaving him dazed before running around the table to lift both Lardo and Farmer in his arms at once. “NHL power couple! Now power family!!” 

Moments later, Chowder zoomed in out of nowhere, reaching up to separate the large athlete from the two laughing, crying individuals he was holding. 

“Hey! Hey… Put my wife down. Please put my wife down… Thank you,” Chowder demanded, politely, reaching for her once he ran over out of nowhere. Cait just laughed and let him hug her protectively, before he was next to be assaulted with near-bruising slaps on the back.

“Oh Chris, you know I’m fine… I was just. Sharing the news--” 

“CHRIIIIS CHOOOOW.”

“FARMER. CAITLIN FARMER.” 

The cheers rolled in around them like thunder from an approaching storm cloud. The secret was apparently, somehow, already out, and honestly, neither her nor Chowder would have wanted it any other way than this; surrounded by all their friends, happy and together. 

X

After the brief but intense celebration of the expectancy of one of Samwell’s favorite couples, Jack stole away to find Lardo duct-taping rows of Molson Canadian cans into concentric circles on the ground behind a drink table. He leaned on his hands to peer over at her work. 

“...You’re gonna start bumming me out at my birthday if you sad-sculpt right now, is that what you want?” 

“Not sad-sculpting. I’m live-sculpting. It’s more of a…” she waved her hand in the air without looking up. “Spectacle. Very important to the party.” 

“Whatcha making?” 

“A surprise. But also very important to the party,” she explained vaguely. She loudly stomped on one of the cans where she sat, throwing her whole being into the act, and then applied the flattened piece to the shape she was amassing. She finally shot him a look when he did nothing but just stand over her. “...If you’re expecting that to have upset me, that I’m thinking, aw man, why can’t that be me, I was supposed to be the one having babies and living my best life by now…” she growled and chomped at the tape with her teeth when she couldn’t tear off a particular piece. “Think again, buddy. You must think I’m a real asshole… Plus, that’s super sexist! To think that’s all I want in life… god.” 

Jack just pursed his lips, drumming his fingers on the table. “...Well, I literally accused you of none of that, Lardo. Just euhh… came to see what you were working on.” He reached down to pat her on her head. Then, he finished his beer and tossed next to her. “Keep it up, good talk.” 

“Drop ‘em here,” she sighed, motioning wearily with her arm to some random partygoers with empty cans to the growing pile beside her. “That’s right… just bring ‘em back. Especially the Molsons and Buds, I’m sticking with a color scheme and concept.” 

X

“Dude yeah, it’s him…”

“It is! Oh my god-”

“Shit, he’s here!”

Jack returned to a circle of his friends who were clearly gossiping about something or another, trying to point someone out in the packed crowd. But who they were speculating about stuck right out, unmistakably, among the sea of faces.

“It’s Ovi! Dude…” Ransom and Nursey looked at each other with shockingly similar expressions, grabbing the sides of their faces, losing their respective cools. 

Not quite the prophecy-fulfilling Crosby, but maybe even better. 

“Dude, it’s Ovi… It’s Ovechkin! Go over there for us,” Nursery pushed at Jack. And again, Jack was suddenly hyper-aware that he was wearing a ridiculous shirt and a Buffalo Sabres cap, neither of which came with any context, and he was two if not three sheets to the wind; he just flipped the brim of his hat around backwards before he approached to seem more personable, and straightened his shoulders with a smile. Because it was one thing to play with the guy… to meet him. But it was another thing entirely when Alexander Ovechkin himself showed up at your party. Instant legend status. 

Tater crossed his arms smugly as they all watched the man of the hour greet the guest of the moment, and leaned down to schmooze the boys of SMH. He wasn’t a bragger, but felt he deserved a little credit for this one. “Ohh, you know… Me and Ovi. Going so far back, like they say..?” he chuckled, making it obvious he was exaggerating it just a little. 

“Dude.” Ransom gawked up at Tater, as if he needed any more fuel for his bro-crush. They fist-bumped. 

X

“Hah, so… so then, Bitty actually wheels behind the net before the pass even lands--” 

Jack is in the middle of regaling the tadpoles and a few stray Falcs with tales of how incredible his boyfriend was. And well… they’d all played and lived with him for two years, so they already knew all about Bitty’s many talents. But Jack was justifying this by the fact that these were stories from before they’d even come along, when the beautiful phenomenon of Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle on the same line was not just a fantasy or tale. This one was for all the people who weren’t there to witness it. 

“Sooo, like… I thought we passed the Bittle-gushing phase…” Whiskey patiently checked his watch. “...Twenty-ish minutes ago?” 

Thirdy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not ‘passed’... that takes more than a little effort,” he mumbled in response as Jack continued obliviously, while St. Martin just laughed his ass off, slapping his thigh. The lovesick hockey player had found a willing audience in Tango and Ford, anyways; Denice touching her heart and hanging on his every word like he was reciting from a romance novel, and Tango enthralled as he usually was, half-dead eyes and an open-mouthed smile, but present nonetheless. 

“Is true. Need like… two more drinks, then maybe he can shut up, dance or something,” Tater schemed, holding his chin as he and Whiskey regarded Jack as if he were a science project; a freak of nature. 

“Hey, shut up! It’s my bachelor party… kind of. I’m allowed to talk about how much I love my fiancee… or something,” Jack called out to them awkwardly. “...Right?”

Thirdy and Marty looked at each other, frowned skeptically, and then looked at their wives, before promptly offering rushed and uncoordinated affirmations; not without ultimately erupting in more good-natured laughter. 

“Whatever! Let me know when Jack is ready to get down, I’m like pretty sure I see Eichel… be right back,” Holster dashed off, dragging Ransom with him. 

“EEEWWWW” came a distant screech that was unmistakably Shitty’s, and had Jack wheeling around and wondering where he had gone off to, and then realizing how much was going on at this party outside of the little circle he’d gathered to wax lyrical about the love of his life, and while they were trying to act interested, really, putting forth a valiant effort for him, he was a good enough sport to realize that standing around making smalltalk over great music wasn’t the move at a party like this.

“Alright, fuck… drinks?” Jack laughed in defeat, and was met with nothing but nods of approval, and the starting efforts to move towards wherever they could get more beer. It’s not like they’d have to go far in any direction to find some. 

X

“Fuck… Fuck! Who was it… I think I just saw a Jonas Brother, and I never did trust those guys…” 

Shitty was tugging at a chunk of his hair, trying to pull in around his face to get a look at whatever was stuck in it. He walks away to do one keg check… “Christ Almighty… metaphor for my fuckin life…” he muttered, weeding around and pulling away a piece of the sticky mass. Lardo pulled back a tarp to check out the commotion, dropping an arm full of beer cans she’d scavenged, and put her hands on her hips. “Lards! Come here, I think… I think I got some gum in here, or somethin’...” he fussed with it. 

Lardo just sighed as she approached, and slapped his hand away. “Of course… of course I’m the only one around who can help you right now,” she grumbled, trying to make it sound as if she was just chirping. But she wasn’t, really. Still. A helpless Shitty had always been her weakness. 

“Just chop it, Lards… chop it right off. I’m due for one anyways. Back to the office soon and all…” he resigned, sadly, in defeat, where he sat on a bathroom counter. 

“Aaand… What, there aren’t any long-haired lawyers?” she raised an eyebrow, short on patience with him anymore. She huffed again, because it was still hard to be so genuinely biting with her words, even if she was upset. “...Nah. I’m not cutting your beautiful flow. Not this time. Just--hold still,” she ordered, and reached for the jar of peanut butter. 

“Oh, the humanity… who would do such a thing!” he lamented, always so uselessly dramatic when drunk. Lardo scoffed. 

“Please. You know it was probably just stuck to a cup or a table or something, you idiot.” She slathered the spread into his hair, taking some pleasure in doing so. 

“...I _am_ an idiot,” Shitty decided, and there was weight behind it. Like it wasn’t just about the gum. Lardo’s eyes burned, but she just focused hard on her work. She didn’t directly respond to his remark. Didn’t speak at all until she was ready to. She left the peanut butter in his hair to sit, and went to rinse her hands. She took a deep breath and let it out. She might as well say something, or else allow her feelings to dictate whether or not she had a good time whenever he was involved in something they did as a group. Shitty was always involved. 

“Are you even happy? I hope you are, Shits. Like, for real, that’s all I want, but I don’t even think you’re any closer now…” 

“Whoa whoa wh-- Dude, what?” Shitty held up his hands, as if he hadn’t felt the conversation coming. They both had. He was bad at playing dumb when he was drunk. And also, shit at arguing, which he was otherwise good at, and made a living out of. Maybe it was also his tendency to roll over and show his belly anytime Lardo called him out for something. 

“Don’t. Don’t give me that.. Like. Where did any of this shit get you? Be honest. I’m not… I’m not gonna claim I was the best thing that ever happened to you, or any dumb shit like that. If it just didn’t work out, then fine, whatever. I’ll get over hurt feelings, but you know it’s more than that… What the hell happened? What the _hell_ are you doing…” 

Maybe it _had_ been a long time coming, but nothing would have prepared Shitty for the attack. He thought about it often himself, and had little to no excuse for his behavior… his continuing behavior. He wasn’t himself. He’d been going against almost everything he believed in.

“You… you said it was about growing up, and that’s what hurt the most. Because… because what, I’m like the phase you go through in college? I’m not mature enough, not traditional enough--”

“Hey. Lards, no…” 

“Just eat that shit. Just own it, You said it. No _shit_ , it was the wrong thing to say…” her voice was pinching off despite her efforts, and she lifted the back of her hand to her eyes. “I just… I just want to hear you acknowledge that you did and tell me _why_. Because I feel like garbage every time I think about that conversation. Not just because we broke up. But because it was about things I can’t change, and I think about that shit all the time, Shitty.” 

And he wished he had the words for her. To make her understand that she was absolutely perfect to him, and yet, there wasn’t an explanation on earth to adequately explain why he let her go. He had no polished plea or rebuttal. But maybe he needed more practice speaking off the cuff. He drew in a calming breath. 

“...Because I started to listen to people whose opinions don’t matter. And then I started to believe them. And then, I, fuckin’... acted on it,” he dropped his hands to his lap, and looked down at them. 

“...You were gonna fight the good fight. You had so much fire… You had a passion and a goal. Now you’re a lackey at some firm that makes sure crooked millionaires don’t lose their millions. I think… I think that’s what’s disappointed me most of all,” she admitted, surprising even herself. He’d hurt her. But what hurt most was seeing the life gone from his eyes. Shitty gaped at her a second, but then got it together. He nodded. 

“Yeah… I know. I sold the fuck out, I became everything I hated. I was going to… I was gonna fight for the people who didn’t have anyone else fighting for them. That was my whole thing. My whole reason. Like, yeah, I need experience to get there but I feel like I’m taking a step back every day, Lards, every fucking day, like I’m doing damage, leaving a footprint that’s gonna take my whole life to fill back in.

“I had everything I needed, right there. Those first two years at Harvard, I think I knew exactly where I was, and then… I lost it. I got this apprenticeship. I listened way too much to my parents… about my career and about you. And then I traded in the woman of my dreams for… For a Sataness.” 

Shitty paused. To swallow, and to notice that Lardo was just… letting him talk. He kept going. 

“I think.. I was too concerned with growing up. Leaving behind… I don’t know, the frivolity of my undergrad years? But… but that’s who I am. Who I really am. And I think… growing up isn’t about conforming to who you’re supposed to be. What your parents say you should be, what Harvard Fucking Law says you should be. What your… cold-blooded girlfriend says you should be. They’ll all just break you down and put you lower and lower if you let them, and disguise it as trying to help. Fuck “growing up,” or whatever the fuck society says growing up is. Growing up is doing what makes you fulfilled and fucking happy, and holy shit, Lards, you are actually the farthest fucking thing from frivolous I’ve ever known.” 

By the end of it he was breathing hard, and he was still half-drunk and wasn’t certain any of it had made sense. But it was from the heart. And it felt like there was less pressure in his head and less weight pushing on his shoulders, and if this didn’t fix anything between them, well then at least he had that. That brief feeling of lightness. 

Lardo couldn’t meet his eye for a moment, and decided it was time to try and dislodge the chewing gum from the nest it had made in Shitty’s mane. It took a little tugging and wincing, but soon enough it was free, and she was washing out his hair in the sink. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, looking up at her with tears in his eyes where her combing fingers joined the warm water flowing through his hair. “I’m sorry for what I said and how that made you feel. It was never the _truth_. You’re important and valid, and… and you’re _perfect_. You’re not a phase, and we’ve never been incompatible. We’re the two most compatible people--fuck, that I’ve ever met, and I want- I mean. I was prepared to spend the rest of my life with you.” 

God, he didn’t deserve anything, but if she didn’t give him something soon, he might die. 

“Well… You didn’t. You didn’t spend the rest of your life with me, you bailed,” she reminded him, but she was fishing through a drawer and pulled out a hairbrush. And then she reached up and touched his face, probably way too tenderly, and her blank expression turned desperate. “...But if no one’s told you lately… you’re amazing. And… you’re a good person. And you deserve the same unconditionally supportive love you give everyone else. And… you have friends who are always gonna give that to you, you know? You know we all have your back, and when no one’s there telling you that you’re enough the way you are, then you _find us_.” Idiot. Such an idiot. But she didn’t say that this time, just raised the brush and carefully worked through his tangled hair. And she didn’t have to, but she reached up to massage with her fingertips the spot on his scalp she’d been yanking at when she was through. 

“Come on, now,” she reached up to wipe away at his tears, smiling back at him. “Let’s just… let’s just go make sure this party’s sealed in legend… I mean, it’s not gonna seal itself,” she pointed out, and tugged him down from the counter. 

When they walked back down to the party, their fingers were woven together, and they stayed that way for a while. 

X

“It took me years to get to starting goalie. Lots of hard work, and then when you think you got it, it’s more hard work to prove yourself,” Snowy explained to his protege, Chris Chow, who looked about to jump out of his skin again in joy, just for talking about one of his favorite topics. “It’s tough out there for goalies. But you know Jack and I will always vouch for you. You’re good, kid. I think you can make it up there.” 

“Thank you! I know, oh my god… It’s so challenging! And I would have never thought it would be LA knocking on my door, of all teams… But, I’m grateful for the opportunity! I’ll do everything I can to stay, but it’s the chance of a lifetime just to be a part of it!” Chowder gushed as they waited on everyone else to fill their beers. Snowy offered a calm little smile and pat him on the shoulder. 

“That’s a good attitude to have, then, kid. I’m not worried about you, no one is. I mean, if you don't decide to tone down the Sharks gear in LA, I might be. But hey- you’re about to have a whole lot more experience than me in parenting, I’ve heard. Me and Emma haven’t done that bit yet, so I’ll cash in on advice when the time comes, cool?” Snowy winked. 

“Cool!” Chowder responded, and Jack stalked over to suddenly grab his old teammate in a backwards hug. 

“Guys! Announcement… I will be proceeding to the dance floor,” Jack informed his Samwell friends in slightly slurred speech, those who had stock in this development. They cheered, and started stumbling over each other to go make obnoxious requests to Louis, just as a new track started, and--

Of course. 

Jack stopped in his tracks and frowned, his shoulders sagging as soon as he recognized the remixed version of Drunk in Love by Beyoncé. The realization of his friends came one after the other, seconds later, followed by loud, frustrated moaning and groaning. 

“Drinks-”

“Yeah. Drinks.”

“Drinks. More drinks,” everyone collectively decided, and turned around in defeat, pushing the Birthday Boy back to retrieve yet even more alcohol before he could get any more sad about the absence of Bitty. 

X

They ended up bypassing the dancing completely for the time being to instead partake in another fantastic drunk activity, which was jumping into swimming pools fully clothed. Well really, it had begun with Shitty sticking an unwarranted hand in Jack’s pants pocket to pull out his phone and throw it across the lawn before he and Tater wrestled him into a toss to the shallow end. 

Naturally, a swarm of others joined in, cannonballing over heads and sending water over the sides, and a wandering security guard took it upon himself to stand at the 5-foot line to yell at anyone who crossed it. But because that wasn’t enough, a sudden presence commanded everyone’s attention towards the end of the pool. A hush fell over the water, and the splashing ceased as Jack popped his head above water to see what was going on. 

“You know… I told myself I wouldn’t come to this, because of professional boundaries or whatever, but I was in the next state over for work, and thought, what the hell--”

“GEORGE!” 

If there was maybe one person who could ever hope to control 24 hulking and rambunctious professional athletes, it was Georgia Martin, and while she looked amused, she didn’t seem 100 percent pleased with the current state of things. 

“I would feel better if your drunk sorry asses weren’t in a body of death liquid at the moment,” she laughed, and that point was enough for them. She usually made good points, so they climbed out, one after one. “...Thank you.” 

“Hug!” Jack grinned, water streaming off of his clothes as he emerged and approached his GM. He waddled towards her jokingly, holding out his arms. 

“Ohh, no no no… Someone’s in a way tonight, aren’t they?” George chuckled, and held out her hands, shoving him back. “Hey! Zimmermann…” she shook her head in hysterics at the sight of him. 

“What! It’s my birthday, you’re not gonna give me a hug…” 

“No. I am not.” 

X

Lardo had sculpted an entire Stanley Cup. 

She had sculpted an entire Stanley Cup out of beer cans, and Jack loved her for that. It was amazing and it’s easy to forget just how impressive she is when she’s so low-key about pretty much everything. They’re alike in that way. 

She gifted him the trophy and he lifted it over his head and the whole lawn was losing. Their. Shit. That was probably the moment he realized just how many people were in attendance. And… it was a lot. It was probably all over Snapchat and Instagram and hitting TMZ like… five minutes ago. 

Shitty realized this also, and discovered he didn’t care. He could probably go to prison for this whole thing but he was looking at Lardo and she was on Jack’s shoulders while she hoisted a perfect likeness of the noblest of sports awards she’d built with her bare hands and two materials in an hour between managing a party and tending to his stupid issues, and Shitty loved her. 

Everyone was going wild as Jack ran Lardo in a victory lap around the back yard while she struggled to stay upright through all the jostling and her delighted laughter. When the pair had had their fill, she turned it over to the crowd for it to pass through their hands, and hopped down to high-five as many people as she could. 

Shitty elbowed his way through the crowd to kiss her. 

She kissed back.


	5. Chapter 5

Jack seemed to have lost track of everyone for a moment, but he was fine with that. He quietly observed Shitty and Lardo having their own moment, and smiled proudly and fondly as their kiss was swallowed up by the rest of the commotion, and then he lost them in the fray of things.

He let them go and stuffed his hands in his pockets, lifting his chin to scan the grounds for anything else worth noting.

He put his hands on his hips, beaming every time he spotted a friend in the crowd, enjoying themselves. And then he zeroed in on Kent Parson chatting up Louis at the DJ station, Tater casually resting an arm on his shoulder while they all laughed and conspired about something. Kent handed over a folded-up bill, and Louis hesitated before he accepted it and shrugged, before pulling something up on his laptop. 

Jack narrowed his eyes. 

He watched Kent drag Tater right out to the middle of the dancefloor by his shirt collar, as the next song faded in. The crowd seemed to recognize the track before Jack did, because their cheers drowned out the opening verse as victims were helplessly drawn towards the deck by its intoxicating melody like charmed snakes. 

But when it did dawn on him, it struck harshly. He had no warning before his consciousness was transported back in time to the driver’s seat of his first car, and Kenny was to his right messing with the tuner, until he settled on a station that was blaring this exact chorus. ‘ _This is my jam!_ ’ 

Now, Kent and Tater were laughing and jumping up and down to “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus in the middle of a packed crowd that was doing the same, but they stood out quite clearly to Jack, and not just because Tater was a whole 6’4”. He couldn’t look away from them. They were having the time of their lives. 

He couldn’t figure out why that pissed him off so deeply. 

Suddenly, escape was the only thing on his mind. He took the opportunity while the attention was off of him and bolted from the scene in search of somewhere less populated. 

X

A blurred moment or two later, Jack had scrounged up and dragged with him a garbage bag full of empty cans on his way down and around the side of the house. A few hockey sticks leaned against the garage that sat in an alcove there. 

Jack drew up a little square on the carriage house door with his Bi-Pride tape, picked a stick and got to work. 

He hastily dumped out the bag of cans, crushed one down with his foot, and took a hard swing at it. It didn’t exactly fly the same way a puck did, but by his third try, he slammed the center of his square. He paused briefly, eyes closed and breathing slow, to let the satisfaction wash over him, before he dug back in for more. 

The loud music was muffled and distant, but there. He let out a grunt and tried not to break Ransom’s stick on the next shot. 

He had a line going, stood-up tallboys all in a row, and he crush-slapped, crush-slapped, crush-slapped--

He paused and straightened up, holding his stick across his waist when he heard footsteps approaching over the hill, dragging through grass, and of course that would happen, this was a more-than-over-capacity party and people were bound to wander the grounds. He briefly thought about how he’d explain himself to whoever had found him, especially if it was one of his friends here to scold him for leaving his own rager for hockey. He turned his head to look over his shoulder. 

Kent fucking Parson. 

Jack sighed and rolled his eyes, and carried on loudly crushing and shooting his cans. He tried to ignore Kent, but watched him out of the corner of his eye as he sized up the lengths of the two remaining sticks and chose Shitty’s. Kent walked around and stood one can up for himself, slowly flattening it under his foot, getting a feel for it. He took a wrist-shot, and frowned when he missed the square by a foot or two. Immediately, he toed at another can with his foot, trying to get it to stand up. 

“...If this is about me and Mashkov--”

“Don’t you dare sink your claws into that man,” Jack blurted out while pointing the blade of his stick towards him. Kent reared back. 

“Dude… this is what I’m talking about. What the hell is with the hostility?” Kent asked, holding his hands up halfway, defensive. He huffed, and his attention was pulled back to the unique drill they were currently performing. He knocked away at one of the cans in Jack’s pile out of frustration before he turned back to his own, already nailing the center of the box with his second shot. That was lucky, he figured, before trying again. “And… dude, you totally talk like a southern belle now, it’s freaky,” he added quickly. 

“Hostility?! The hostility is… what the _hell!_ ” Jack tried to explain, but came up just sounding like a whiny child, arms held out at his sides in bewilderment. He was also quite drunk. The level of drunk that probably wasn’t about to go away just from some sobering conversation. “Like what is that? What- What is going on? Was anyone gonna fill me in? Are you-” Jack groaned and facepalmed, leaning an elbow wobbily on the butt of his stick. 

Kent kicked his stick up to rest across his shoulders, and because he was a grade-A asshole, took the opportunity to gloat and look pretty pleased with himself. “As of last night? Hell yeah we are. And I think I’m in love with him,”

Jack flipped a can towards him, and it tapped him lightly on his chest before clattering back to the ground. “No! I didn’t ask- I didn’t ask!” Jack squeezed his eyes shut, and suddenly felt sick. Not for picturing it, but because it had happened. Kent just chuckled, and crushed the can down, shooting it back over. It skittered across the driveway and stopped at Jack’s feet. 

“Cool it. You’re acting like it’s some sort of attack on you. It’s not,” Kent shrugged. 

“Then why? Why him… Answer me that,” Jack passed the ‘puck’ back with an insufficient amount of finesse, and it flipped and fluttered up into the air a bit. Kent swatted it down, sharp as ever. 

“...Because it’s a lonely fucking existence, Zimms. And he… he gets it. If you think it’s some diabolical plan to make you suffer, it’s not. It’s not that deep. I promise.”

“I didn’t- that’s not what I thought,” Jack defended. And it wasn’t, exactly, but he didn’t have good enough proof at the moment that it wasn’t. “I just…” Jack took a shot, and then stood up straight, gazing off in thought. “...Why wouldn’t he tell me? He’s my best friend... One of ‘em.”

“Scared that you’d react like this?” Kent shrugged. “Or, maybe it’s that you’re his best friend, and he knows he’s not yours.” Jack’s eyes flashed to Kent, alarmed. 

“Did he say that? He told you that..?” Jack stammered, heart sinking. If Tater wanted to keep any piece of his life private, that was his prerogative… but Jack would like to think he’d feel like he could tell his best friend about something like this. Then again, maybe he was just hurt that Tater didn’t tell him it was Kent in particular. The more he considered it, the tougher the situation did feel. 

Kent refrained from saying anything incriminating, and just sighed as he poked around some cans with his stick. 

“...How long?” Jack wondered quietly. 

“We’ve been messaging since the beginning of the quarantine… started in Twitter DMs, and then we texted and Skyped a bunch. This is the first we’ve seen each other,” Kent explained, and couldn’t keep the little smile off of his face despite his trying.

Inside, Jack had to admit to himself that there was something undeniably sweet about that. Still, it all _angered_ him and he couldn’t quite reach why. Did everyone but him forget that he and Kent had… happened? Was all of that suddenly irrelevant..? Tater knew, he’d told him about it. Kent obviously knew… Was Jack overreacting? He’d made it clear that he’d moved on, after all, so maybe it shouldn’t matter, whether or not this did break Bro Code. But last he’d checked, Kent was the one with the issue moving on, and here he was. It all swam around in his alcohol-addled head, and he was still left wondering what he was supposed to be thinking and feeling about it all when he looked up to find Kent balancing a can on the end of his blade, his tongue touching his top lip as his eyes tracked it into the air as he tossed it, twirled his stick a little, and dipped it low as he carefully caught the piece of aluminum once more. Show-off.

“Are you done with the existential crisis yet, Zimms? Because I’m over it. What about you?” 

“Are you? Since when?” Jack leered, and scraped up his own can, threw it as high as aerodynamics would allow, clapped his blade once on the driveway, before winding up and one-timing the falling trash into the wall. The whole thing looked angry. It hit an inch or two wide of the square, but to be fair, the ‘puck’ was born of drunken frustration and desperation, and not crafted from optimal materials and carefully inspected for professional play. 

“Since I got over myself, went to therapy and came to terms with what you did to me, asshole.” 

Jack froze, his brows tightening in confusion as he stared back, dumbfounded. He wasn’t sure if he should be offended or if he should feel sorry for him or what. That wasn’t anything new between them, though. 

“...Good for you?” Jack stated cautiously, feeling trapped. “Did, uh… is that helping?” he wondered. 

“You know... It is.” Kent decided. He didn’t stop messing with the pile of cans, pretending he was working on stick skills, focusing on his hands for the moment making it easier to talk. It had been a long time coming. “Or at least… maybe it’s doing something. I’m still angry but… less at you. If that makes sense.” 

It did. And that flipped everything on its head. Was Jack the one holding the grudge? Acting childish… was he the one with the problem moving on? On one hand, Jack had known Kent to do this to him. Make Jack feel bad until he had him where he wanted him, and ripped the rug from under him. But on the other… Jack had known all along he had reason to feel bad. Kent had just never given him a chance to apologize. Every time he came around, or reached out, things blew up, and that was on both of them.

“I feel bad. For things I did. And things I said.” At those simple words, Jack looked up to find Kent standing there, looking smaller than he really was, which was strange considering how hard Kent was constantly trying and succeeding at looking large. “...I’m sorry.” 

The tension finally ran away from Jack’s shoulders, and hell, if this was the same gaslighting he always pulled, it didn’t feel like it. Jack felt bad, too. 

“No no… hey. Don’t. It’s alright. I’m sorry too, Kenny. Lord knows this mess was my fault from the start. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, and I’ve always been sorry, and I’m sorry I never said it.” He lunged forward, stumbling in front of him as the sticks they were holding fell loudly to the driveway, before he pulled him in tight, and the years of dread hanging in the background of his happy life started to slide away. And no. It probably wasn’t as simple as that. There was far more than a drunken ‘sorry’ would address. But somehow, to both of them, this felt like enough for now. 

A bit different than when their bodies were a little softer and their limbs a little looser; but still, maybe it was fitting that they’d come full-circle, trying to solve all their issues while alcohol abuse was involved.

“‘Lord knows?’ Fuckin’ southern belle…” Kent sniffled, and Jack could only return a watery laugh. 

“Fuck off, Kenny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a chapter left in me for this one. Thanks for your patience <3


End file.
